


My Mother's Recipe

by captaintinymite (augopher)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Baking, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Derek and Stiles are Neighbors, Derek is Good with Kids, First Kiss, Found Family, Lonely Derek, M/M, Nurse Derek, Pining Derek Hale, family recipes, secret marshmallow derek hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5521850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/captaintinymite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why did Derek volunteer to make cookies for the sick kids at work? Because he liked children. Why did he volunteer to bake ten dozen on Christmas Eve and have them ready for the next morning? Because he had problems saying no. That's why.</p><p>Short on time and supplies, Derek is at his wits end. With none of his friends available to help, Derek turns to his neighbor whom he just happened to be head over heels for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Mother's Recipe

**Author's Note:**

> For [packleaderscottmccall](http://packleaderscottmccall.tumblr.com/)

Derek dropped his head onto his kitchen counter where it hit with a thud, his cell phone still pressed to his ear. “Oh come on, Erica! You owe me for introducing you and Boyd.”

“Sorry, D. Boyd and I are on our way to Chicago. I’d help if I could. Did you try Isaac?”

He groaned. “Yes. Thanks anyway. Have a safe trip.” He sighed as he ended the call. Now, he knew he wasn’t the easiest person to get to know, but how the hell did he manage to have so few friends and family that no one was available to help him in his time of need?

His time of need being ten p.m. on Christmas Eve, standing in his kitchen, his mother’s prized cookbook open on the counter. The page had been turned to the beginning of the section of cookie recipes. He should really learn to say no. He wouldn’t be in this mess if he could.

Dr. Deaton had approached him on his shift earlier in the day, frantic --which was, in and of itself, something to take note of. Honestly, the man was _never_ rattled--because the bakery they’d hired to make Christmas treats for the sick kids in the pediatric ward had a gas leak. Their power had been turned off as well as their gas lines. With neither, they couldn’t bake.

Why did he come to Derek? Because someone (cough Nurse McCall) reminded the guy that Derek always brought cookies to hospital potlucks. Cookies that she said were absolutely to-die-for. He should have said no, but he didn’t.

Never let it be said that Derek Hale didn’t have a giant soft spot for children.

The problem was not so much the making of at least twelve dozen cookies as it was the fact he didn’t have nearly enough butter...or enough time to have the baked goods ready to drop off by eight a.m. while still getting a decent night’s sleep. One-by-one, he’d dialed everyone he could think of and been turned down.

He heard his next door neighbor curse at something in his apartment, followed by a slight crash. Hopefully, the guy hadn’t hurt himself. Though, if he had and required some help getting to the hospital, Derek would volunteer to help him in a heartbeat, and it would have _nothing_ to do with having a legitimate excuse to bail on baking.

Stiles- “ _Stiles_ ”, Derek said aloud, his voice soft and fond as he pictured the occupant of 17G dancing around his apartment to the Christmas music quietly carrying through the walls. He’d be wearing that ridiculous holiday cardigan his grandmother had knitted for him, the one with garland around the cuffs and a sloth in a Santa hat on the chest. His eyes would be lit up with the mix of colors reflecting from the lights on the tree as he put the finishing touches on his decorations just so everything could be perfect for when his family came over in the morning.

They’d lived next to one another for three years now, and for almost as long, Derek had been fighting his feelings for him. Derek had been around to see not one, not two, but five relationships crumble and fall apart for Stiles. After each break-up, the sound of a tentative knock would come around nine at night, and Derek, the pushover that he was, would open the door every time and keep him company as Stiles, usually closer to drunk than sober at that point, would nurse his broken heart on Derek’s couch. The most recent crushing end to a relationship with a woman Stiles was sure was the one, came just after Halloween. If he were a braver man in the matters of the heart, Derek would have told Stiles by now. Okay, that wasn’t true either. He had courage as far as relationships went. The problem?

He was positive by this point that his beautiful neighbor was, unequivocally, completely, one hundred percent hetero. Leave it to Derek, master of relationship disaster, to fall in love with a straight guy. His sister, Laura--rest her soul--would laugh if she could see him now. Laugh, and then pull him to her her chest in a crushing hug as she offered up platitudes that he’d find someone someday who was absolutely perfect for him. The longing made his heart ache in the worst way

“You’re impossible, Derek,” he said to himself as he flung the cookbook off the counter in a fit of anger before rushing after it to pick it up and inspect if for damage. He lovingly placed it back on the counter. “I wish you were here, Mom. You’d give me good advice on how to get over him.”

After disappointing people more often than not in his younger and more reckless years (if you were to look up teenage screw-up in a dictionary, there would be a bunny-toothed, dorky picture of his sixteen year old self), he’d pulled himself together after three years of wallowing in the guilt of being at least partially responsible for the deaths of his family, and then another six months of mourning his big sister, his best friend. It was shockingly funny--in the sad and pathetic way, not hilarious way--how being totally alone in the world could lend perspective. First undergrad, then nursing school, and now he spent his days helping adorable but sick children feel as good as they could while they battled serious illnesses. It gave him purpose.

But now...he was going to disappoint people once more, and the thought of it made him a little sick to his stomach.

The air in his apartment was suddenly stifling, and he retreated for the solace of his balcony. Leaning on the railing, Derek stared out at the lights of the city trying to figure out if maybe he’d find a store open in the morning.

“Everything okay?”

Startled, Derek looked over to see Stiles standing in a similar position on his own balcony. He was not, in fact, wearing that Christmas sweater, but instead a tight, maroon t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and chest in a way that filled Derek with want. _Stop it, Derek. It would never work. Stop torturing yourself._

“No,” he croaked out, “I volunteered to make cookies for the little bags we give the patients tomorrow.”

“Aww. That’s...seriously adorable.”

“I said I’d bake them before even thinking about it.”

“I fail to see the problem.”

Derek gave him a pained chuckle. “I only have one stick of butter.” God, he felt like dying, or at the very least, puking over the railing. “And none of my friends are able to come bail me out. I called everyone.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Stiles turn to face him. “No, you didn’t.”

“Pretty sure-”

“You didn’t call me, which, frankly, I think I should be insulted about, but as your one true friend apparently, I am not.”

Derek smirked. “Well, thanks for not being offended. I just figured you’d be busy readying your place for the big family gathering tomorrow.”

“Au contraire, my friend. I finished all that yesterday. I also, happened to make my monthly run to Costco earlier in week, and am in possession of twelve pounds of butter.”

 _Really? Who the hell buys-_ “Twelve pounds?”

Stiles shrugged. “The butter they sell by the four pound package was super on sale, and well, you know me.I’m impulsive. Just ask my dad.” He turned and walked towards the sliding glass door to his apartment. “Go let me in. I’ll be right over.”

***

And that was how Derek found himself standing in the middle of his kitchen less than an hour and six batches of dough later, rolling out dough for gingerbread people. Stiles had insisted that if he was going to help, then Derek had to listen to, without complaint, his choice of Christmas music. There would be no ifs ands or buts about it.

Instead of being annoyed by Stiles’ assertiveness, Derek felt lighter than he had in years as the pair of them stood at the island in his kitchen, each of them in front of a stand mixer--because of course Stiles had his own--preparing Derek’s mother’s award winning gingerbread recipe. Stiles’ hips moved along to the beat while he added ingredients to the bowl. Derek, no matter how hard Stiles had tried, did not join in, but he did sing along softly, which Stiles said counted as a win.

Derek looked over at him. Whenever Stiles pressed one of the cookie cutters into the aromatic, brown dough, Derek’s heart would flutter in his chest at the sight of him, covered in flour, his tongue sticking out a little from the side of his mouth while he concentrated on making perfectly shaped little cookie people.

Derek had told him they didn’t need perfection, that the children wouldn’t care about that, but Stiles had said, ' _Nonsense. Just because they’re children, doesn’t mean they wouldn’t appreciate a beautiful cookie.’_ He suspected there was more to that statement than Stiles let on.

“Oh, my god! I love this song! Turn it up!” The broad grin and the way Stiles laughed with his whole body in excitement at Chuck Berry telling that eponymous reindeer to ‘Run, run, Rudolph’ made Derek’s lips curl into an equally large smile. Stiles held out his hand.

“What?”

“Come on, Derek. Don’t be a downer. Dance with me. Just one dance.”

Instead of putting on his most obstinate face, he indulged him, and let Stiles pull him into a dance hold. “Sorry,” he said when he stepped on Stiles’ foot. “I’m used to leading.”

“It’s okay. I am, too.”

This close, Derek could see the faint smattering of freckles across Stiles’ nose, could lose himself wondering how lashes that long were possible. The warmth of Stiles' hand radiated through the fabric of his shirt. He tried not to think about how they were basically holding hands, albeit sticky and flour covered hands.

Stiles pushed him out and spun him, and Derek was sure he was blushing. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t care that you can’t dance.”

“Thanks.” The song ended and though he was enjoying their closeness, he knew there was more work to do.

Before he could open his mouth, Stiles spoke up. “So, back to work?”

“Back to work.”

It was easy for them to settle back into a steady rhythm, and for all Stiles had complained in the past about his problems focusing, he was a cookie cutting machine. Dozen after dozen of cookies went in the oven and, nine minutes later, they came out. The ones that had cooled, Derek adorned with faces and buttons drawn on with royal icing. Before he knew it, the clock in his living room chimed one in the morning. He was exhausted.

But they’d managed to make enough cookies for the hospital.

From the mixing bowl, Stiles scooped out the extra dough they’d made so they could enjoy a cookie and their hard work, holding it above the counter. “Home stretch. Care to do the honors?”

Derek picked up the bowl holding the flour. When he went to dust the countertop, his sleep fuddled brain made him fumble the bowl, and in his attempt to catch it, accidentally threw a handful of flour all over Stiles. “Oh my, God. I am so sorry.”

Stiles blinked, and Derek braced himself for a biting remark. What happened next, was like a scene straight out of a romantic comedy. Derek watched, as if everything was unfolding in slow motion, as Stiles reached into the bowl of flour and threw a handful back at Derek with a smirk.

Oh, it was on.

Fistfuls of all-purpose flew back and forth like snow in a snowball fight. The flour fluttered down to the tile around them; it almost looked like it was snowing in Derek’s kitchen. It lent an air of magic to the whole evening.

Finally, the bowl was empty, and they were a mess. When he looked over at Stiles, his nose was dusted in white. Little bits of flour clung to his eyelashes. The maroon of his shirt now looked pink for all the mess covering it.

Derek thought he’d never looked more beautiful.

 _Just tell him._ He could do this.

He reached out to grab a clean kitchen towel from the drawer so he could clean off their faces, but Stiles’ hand caught his wrist. Derek didn’t even have a moment to speak before Stiles had drawn him in and pressed their lips together.

He was sure his brain short circuited, and he went still for several seconds. Stiles mistook his stillness and began to pull away, but Derek was not about to ruin this, and instead reached out an arm and snaked it around his waist. He cupped Stiles’ cheek, brushed a thumb under his eye to clean off the flour.

Stiles’ lips, though slightly chapped, felt amazing as they moved against his. Tentative tongues slipped against one another when Derek’s lips parted.

He could hardly breathe, and his brain was still offline, when Stiles broke the kiss. “Wow,” Derek whispered, blinking at him owlishly, his head foggy with desire. “How- what? You’re- You like women.” _Way to go, dumbass._

Stiles caressed his cheek. “I know. I can’t explain it either.” He looked away, almost as though he was a bit embarrassed and took a deep breath. When he looked back at Derek, his smile was blinding. “I was firmly in the ‘I love the ladies’ camp until you came into my life.”

Derek gave a soft chuckle, then dusted off Stiles’ face the rest of the way with the towel still clutched in his hand.

“The last time you let me cry over my pathetic attempt at a relationship, I woke up the morning after, sitting there on my bed, hungover as fuck until it hit me and knocked me flat on my ass. I thought about how sometimes there's things you wouldn't think would be a good combination end up turning out to be, like, a perfect combination. Like orange and blue, or...” He tapped on his chin as he struggled for another example, “Peanut butter and chocolate. Or, you know, like two people together - Who nobody ever thought would be together ever, but they are kind of perfect for each other? I wondered why I keep doing this to myself.’”

Stiles scratched his brow. “Then I thought, ‘Why do I keep looking for this mythical woman who will give my life meaning, or how ever that bullshit romantic cliché goes, when Derek is right there?’ I mean, I never thought I could be into men, until you-” He shrugged. “Or maybe it is _just_ you that I could feel like this for.”

This had to be a dream. He’d slipped on a pile of flour and fallen, knocking himself unconscious. There was no way Stiles was standing here in his kitchen telling Derek _everything_ he’d wanted to hear for years.

Stiles took a deep breath. “I’m three hours away from my family and almost all of my friends, and there you are. You’ve become my home away from home, my safe place...I guess what I’m trying to say is, I love you, and if I didn’t read this wrong, I think you might feel the same way about me. You’re the first guy I’ve kissed. I’ve never dated one, never been with one. But it can’t be that different. And you know what? I don’t really care if it is. After my string of failures, maybe what I need is ‘different’. I just know that I want to be with you.”

His heart pounded in his chest. He still couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t really think straight, but, in all honesty, he didn’t really need to. “I do. I feel the same, and I want that too, so much.”

Stiles kissed the tip of his nose. “Great. That’s really fantastic, wonderful, amazing- all the synonyms for awesome you can think of.” His flustered giggle was, quite possibly, one of the best sounds Derek had ever heard. “Anyway, I hope you have an ugly Christmas sweater, because it’s Stilinski Christmas tradition.”

“I don’t under-”

Stiles pressed a finger to his lips. “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t think I’m not aware you have nowhere to go tomorrow. After all, you should spend Christmas with the ones you love, and that wouldn’t be complete if you’re not there.”

“I don’t have a sweater.”

Stiles just shrugged. “You know what? Fuck the sweater.” He wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, staring at him in earnest. “Say you’ll come. They’ll love you. You and my dad’ll-”

This time, it was Derek’s turn to silence him. “How about you stop talking and kiss me again?”

“That sounds like a fantastic plan.”

As they stood there kissing in his kitchen, surrounded by cookies and covered in flour, Frank Sinatra sang his wish for a merry little Christmas. Yeah, Derek thought, for the first time in years, his heart would be light.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://captaintinymite.tumblr.com/)


End file.
